The Alter Ego Theory
by witchfingers
Summary: What starts as an unlikely, mundane misfortune might trigger a (familiar) turn of events in the life of an older Seto. [eventual blueshipping]
1. A man that rarely smiled

_Only disclaimer: I don't own much more than my ideas._

_._

.

**The Alter Ego Theory**

.

* * *

He arrived at the bus stop meticulously dry under his navy blue umbrella. Only his shoes were wet, and his socks inside them, but he didn't really mind. His thoughts were elsewhere, far, far away, maybe trying to catch up to him from the dirt road he'd just been running on.

The thing is that, despite it all, it was so unlikely he'd be there. Popular belief would dictate that a man with two MBAs and his knack for sniffing out skyrocketing return on investments would be driving a sleek car, probably gunmetal grey, listening to some snobbish type of high-class trance and watching the road lights go by like frantic fireflies. Yet there he was, so late, so far from home. So many paradoxes, all converging in his designer clothes and the dark bags under his eyes.

The sticker on the bus stop's metal frame with the schedule said there was still half an hour left until the next bus turned up. Despite that, he didn't take a seat, just waited, just looked at the relentlessly falling rain. On a spur of awareness, he hazily calculated he wouldn't be back home before midnight.

The bus stop was almost empty, but the rain, the cold, and the darkness made it feel almost crowded. A skinny girl with a hoodie sat to his right, an old yet vigorous man, stood to his left. Distracted as he was, he did not pay much attention to either, but being a man with a strong sense of practicality he did note, that the girl was soaking wet, and the old man was immaculately dry, although neither carried an umbrella. She had a white bag, he wore a WWII-like trenchcoat; and he labeled them in his head by force of habit, mechanically, as if they were individuals to transact business with- the careless girl, the KGB officer. He'd buy stock from neither, he thought, which brought a frail, distant smile to his lips.

Minutes passed in rural silence, and a chorus of frogs made up for the lack of interaction between the three strangers, that could have very well been the last inhabitants of the world in that moment. Three people who, most likely, had been gathered in that place due to the most dissimilar (yet surely equally bizarre) reasons.

The city was, after all, further away than anyone would wish it to be so late on a working day.

When the bus arrived, he courteously let the girl and the old man go in first. The driver was a young, bald man, with an intelligent shine in his eyes, and an assortment of facial tattoos that made him look like a convict or a tiki god, and strangely in place with the slightly-offness of the night.

Gently, the engine was started and the bus set in motion.

He failed to be pleased with himself for always coming back. From the formal clothes to the wooden hilt of his umbrella, he didn't belong in the peaceful world of ancient continuance that the temple preserved; he, with his class and wealth and renown, felt almost stupid for trying to offer a prayer to some whatever gods he'd never much cared about, much more when he knew it was both hypocritical and the right thing to do. Yet, there he was.

Again.

The logical side of his brain was still trying to decode how it worked, the feeling of void when his brother left for university to another city, the involuntary remembrance of the good and bad times past, the pang in his chest when he waved at him in the airport for the last time, the first time he left, and the single thought spared to his parents during the solitary car drive back home.

That had been five years ago. And, roughly about that time, driven by something akin to nostalgia (and definitely not regret), was when he had found out where their parents were buried. He remembered the kindness of the priest despite his edginess. His feeling at a loss for words when he saw the gravestone.

The following year, his brother had come with him to visit, marking an anniversary and a routine of sorts.

They'd taken the bus there, like two any other ordinary kids going to see their parents' burial site. It was strangely relieving, to be just the two of them on a bus that was always almost empty. They didn't need to drive in privacy, where sentiments flowed with more ease and tears would make them awkward, if they maybe wouldn't withstand it. It could be done without. It was for the better.

Term tests this year had kept his brother from coming, but he, he had come, nonetheless.

And there he was, and as always, the ride would be long and quiet. There had only been two other men already on the bus, grim and almost asleep, when he and the other two waiting with him at the bus stop got in; and there was something strange about the whole scene, as if the atmosphere was dense or as if he were having a déjà vu; and even the bus driver looked slightly solemn through the rearview mirror.

He went through the trouble of reasoning with himself that he was probably too tired, overworked, and most likely more affected by the visit to his parents' graves than he consciously acknowledged.

He watched the landscape go by slowly, the scarce lights of the countryside flickering warmly beyond the continual line of street lights along the empty road. It felt like being in a trance, almost, though the air was pretty cold and the floor of the bus was patterned with muddy footprints.

A sudden shake tore him out of his slumberous thoughts, just in time for him to see the full unfolding of what followed, in what felt like a series of inevitable, slow-motion film clips. The bus had evidently caught the wrong angle of a cranny on the road and lost stability, which sent it on a slippery slide towards the grassy side of the road. The wheels lost grip due to the rain, and however hard the driver stepped on the brakes, the bus still ended up crashing against a tree with a considerably thick trunk, with a loud, unpleasant _thud._

The bus had not been going at too great a speed, though, and for a while, all what could be heard was the rain and the engine, struggling to keep the vehicle going on beyond the tree, towards the rice fields. But it eventually gave up, and after emitting a high-pitched sizzling noise, it fell silent.

Afterwards, all that remained was the sound of the rain, gently drumming on the metal roof of the bus.

.

* * *

.

_**Alter ego:** A doctrine used by the courts to ignore the corporate status of a group of stockholders, officers, and directors of a corporation in reference to their limited liability so that they may be held personally liable for their actions when they have acted fraudulently or unjustly or when to refuse to do so would deprive an innocent victim of redress for an injury caused by them._

.

**Author's note:** Well, it's been a while since I wrote anything. This has been going around in my mind and thought I'd write it so that it stops coming up at unexpected moments when I'm trying to concentrate :)

Comments are greatly appeciated! And stay alert, I might update this rather fast these days ;)


	2. non bis in idem

_._

.

**2**

.

* * *

The five passengers stood under the rain, forming a semicircle around the resigned driver, who was taking a look at the engine and seeing what could be done. Not much, apparently.

He, on the other hand, had immediately tried to contact either the SOS services or his chauffer, whichever would answer him first, but, as luck would have it, they were too far in the countryside to have network coverage. He pocketed his phone, and, frowning, looked on like the other passengers.

The bus driver was fiddling around with a wrench. He had, beyond the extravagant facial tattoos, a large tattoo that took up most of his forearm, and read, in capital letters, NON BIS IN IDEM.

Somehow, inexplicably, he remained looking at it a period of time he could not calculate- it caused him a great impression. As if, deep within him, those words had any meaning. But as soon as his conscious thinking regained prevalence, he shook himself out of it and concluded he really needed to get back home and sleep a great deal. Maybe even not go to work the following day.

"Would any of you like to take a look?" The driver asked, but no one present knew much about engines. He closed the hood with a sigh, and an apologetic look on his face, and got on the bus to ask for help on the radio.

He soon found himself reluctantly forfeiting the soothing coolness of the sleeping countryside along with the other passengers, as first the old man, and then the two men, followed the driver back into the bus. He spared a blasé glance to the girl, whose dark hood shielded her face partially from view, but not her body from the rain, which had by now slowed down to a drizzle. He didn't linger, and soon after he'd come back into the bus, she came back in as well.

The radio could be heard from the last row of seats, entwined with the driver's steady voice. It was not long before the conversation was over, and the man addressed them. Rather than returning to the places where they had haphazardly sat originally, they had accommodated themselves in the front seats, and listened intently.

"They'll be sending a rescue vehicle along with the mechanical aid truck. They estimate they'll be here within an hour and a half."

"Maaan, I'm so not getting laid tonight," one of the two men drawled. His companion chuckled slightly at his expense, and patted his back, uttering some encouraging words.

Interestingly enough, other than that, no one really complained.

He personally found the comment rather annoying. _Next time keep your petty intimacies to yourself_, he tried to convey with his glare, but he wasn't particularly successful.

A look from the bus driver, and a rather disgusted grimace on the old man's mouth told him he wasn't the only one entertaining the thought.

"So, that's that," either of the men said, and both of them arose and walked casually towards the back of the bus, where they stretched and made themselves comfortable. They didn't seem to mind the idle scrutiny of the three remaining men on the bus, (the driver, impassive, the old man, judging, and him, nonchalant by default), not when they retrieved some cans of beer from their backpacks, not when one of them grabbed a smartphone and a completely out of place kind of foreign music started playing, a tune that was absolutely out of place at the moment, and grated on everybody else's nerves- a vile mixture of rap with someone singing, now and then, a _Yalla Yalla_. The music, the voices of the two individuals, and the mixed smells of beer and potato chips displaced the peaceful, if eerie, atmosphere that had been installed by the night and the rain, and made it slightly akin to a cheap-pub-feel in a rundown part of town.

He was beyond it, he'd endured worse, and if he could avoid it, he'd rather not complain. Complaining was for lesser people and immature pricks. He'd complained enough in his teenage years to last him a lifetime.

Not everyone was as patient as him.

"It's a sorry state most men have come to," the old man commented, shaking his head, his eyes sporting a grave shine to them.

"Perhaps, but it should be fine," said the driver, "If all goes well, it won't take long to send someone for us. They're usually very efficient."

"However efficient they might be, they'll still take over an hour to be here," the old man moodily replied, "I'm old, and I'm not up to obliging those thugs. It's bad already as it is. They should be told to be civilized and stay quiet."

The conversation had drawn the girl's attention, and she was now also facing the driver.

"I would not advise that," the bus driver said calmly, "That sort of people, it's the kind that's fast to pick a fight. They're as bored and confined as we are, though probably much more volatile. It's better for all of us to let them be."

The old man was about to protest, and in an unkind manner as well, probably, but he was quick to speak before the other did:

"The man is right," he said, regally, and his voice sounded rich and even, "It's pointless to bother. Starting a fight won't do anyone any good." Being regal was something he'd been working on recently. One day he'd woken up thinking it'd be a great treat to pick up.

But it certainly didn't seem to appease the old man, whom, the more they talked about it, the more he seemed to be convinced of his not needing to stand the two men sitting on the back. However, he said nothing, only scowled and squiggled slightly against his seat, so as to show that he was neither pleased nor comfortable.

"Don't take it personal, sir," a new voice chimed. It was the girl, speaking for the first time. "Soon, they'll come for us, and we'll get home faster than we would have otherwise."

"She's right," the driver asserted, "Was any of you in a hurry?"

"Not particularly," he said.

"No, me neither," she answered.

"My grandchildren are waiting for me," the old man murmured, with slight bitterness. "I can't even let them know we're… delayed. They'll worry about me, that's for sure."

For some reason, it occurred to the three of them at the same time, that it was slightly surprising that the old man had anyone to worry about him, let alone grandchildren, despite his age.

"I am deeply sorry to hear that, sir," the bus driver said, frowning, "I don't suppose we could reach your family with my radio?"

"No," the old man replied, "But it's alright, it's alright, don't worry. They should go to sleep soon, anyway, if that good-for-nothing mother of theirs has learnt anything about discipline since the last time…"

He passed his hand through his hair slowly, starting to regret not having driven to the temple on the first place. He'd never really liked listening to people complaining about parents, or children, or anything. Maybe it was a 'touchy subject'. Many people had those.

"And what about you?" the girl said, addressing the driver, "Were you in a hurry to be back?"

The driver smiled, perhaps for the first time, in return for the girl's kindness. "Not really. I have the night shift during the week."

"I see…"

Despite it all, they were not having an awkward conversation. Their exchanges were slow, unhurried, and, from what was becoming apparent, none was too talkative a person. So it was fine. They were strangers, after all, and they had plenty of time on their hands.

"I hope this is not too personal a question, Mr. Driver," the girl said, "But what does that mean? Non bys… in… ídem?"

She'd stolen another smile from the tattooed man; and he found himself paying attention to what the man answered, because he'd been wondering about the scripture since he'd first seen it, too.

"Non bis in idem. It means," he said, lowering his voice to become almost confidential, "That you cannot be tried twice for the same crime."

Even the old man's curiosity seemed to be piqued at the unexpected answer: "You did not strike me as former convict," he commented lightly.

"I'm not," the bus driver answered, lightly as well, "I was a justice, for many years. I got this tattoo the day I quit."

No one asked any further questions, mainly because the former judge would probably be fine with answering them, and they were sensible enough to sense a sad story behind the dramatic shift in profession.

It seemed, he thought, that everything that night was doomed to come out with a slightly tragic tinge. Such was the feeling he got, from the temperature of the air and the unwavering street lights, that sported a yellowish halo of mist and drizzle.

And all the while, the two men's ungodly music kept playing in the background, though now it had subdued to some kind of trance laden with oriental undertones.

The girl's voice chimed again:

"You wouldn't have water, by any chance?"

It was a completely random question, that reverberated in his chest for whatever reason- she had a nice voice, that was it, surely. Neither the driver nor the old man did, he neither, but couldn't keep his eyebrow from rising questioningly, as if there were anything else to it.

She smiled sheepishly, biting her lower lip.

"Well… it suddenly feels as if I'd not drunk anything in ages…"

.

* * *

.

.

**Author's note:**

Well well, something seems about to happen...

The music the two guys are listening to, in case anyone wants to picture the scene more clearly (or just for the heck of it), is 'Yalla Yalla' _ (Ishtar Alabina Ft. Ilan Babylo)_ Have fun ;) Btw, that's totally what Malik listens to real loud on his car when he goes for a night drive through the desert ;). I want to say that I don't consider it vile or anything of the sort, it's a nice song, it's the other characters that didn't like it. Heh.

I wonder if you already guessed who the characters are...? Most probably. I'll try to tuck in some names as soon as the plot allows me to :)

.

I want to thank Erik's Champion, Unita, and Within A Tragedy most kindly for their nice reviews. I'm always glad to read your comments and receive your suggestions :)


	3. silence

_"Well… it suddenly feels as if I'd not drunk anything in ages…"_

_._

It sounded more ominous than it should have, her simple statement.

"I guess I'll go ask the guys in the back," she concluded with a small smile of resignation, and she started towards the back of the bus. She paused after making a few paces. "It smells funny," she observed. And while the three men pondered on that assertion, she continued walking.

For the second time that night, he passed his hand through his hair. Absentmindedly, he noticed he'd have to have his hair cut, or else he'd risk being taken for his brother. But, why was it that he felt at such unease? He was not the type of guy that picked up vibes, despite previous encounters with what others called the 'occult', and he, in turn, called the 'dubiously uncertain'.

However, there was _something_…

The old man was wrapped in his trench-coat in such a way that he seemed to be wearing a long cape. It had become really cold, he felt it too- the bus driver seemed rather oblivious to it, though.

"Where are we, anyway?" He found himself asking.

"Well…" the driver was about to answer when his face suggested he was suddenly not quite sure. "Well, this is…"

He followed the driver's gaze and was met with a strange phenomenon. As it seemed, the windowpanes had glazed over; and past the veil of frost, all that could be seen was darkness. The flickering lights of the countryside were gone, taking with them the warmth of their glow and the nightness of the air.

"Strange."

The former judge got up and casually strolled towards the large front window, and tapped it.

"Very strange."

Soon after, the old man got up, and proceeded to do the same thing.

"Remarkable," he muttered.

While they pondered about the ice, he was pondering about the sudden silence. And it was not until the word '_silence' _made itself present in his mind that he realized that the music had died off, and that the girl had not come back.

When he turned his gaze towards the back of the bus, a wave of wariness shook him from the core.

It had gradually become so dark, too, that somehow the lights of the bus did not reach all the way to the back, so the last row of seats had been lost to a pulsating darkness. And then, right before the shadows thickened, stood the two men with their faces all but transformed, each holding one of the girl's arms tightly.

He failed to understand the scene before him, but when his eyes eventually found hers, he distantly noted they were very much like his own. She looked, however, troubled, although that was much less normal a reaction than he would have expected. If he would.

"Let her go," He steadily commanded, "I can't begin to fathom what on Earth is wrong with you two."

Maybe the darkness was getting to them, or the cold, who cared.

"However mighty you might be, Set," one of them snarled, "You're no boss of us here."

The matter was not how they knew his name (or what sounded like it)- most people did, anyway- the matter was what had suddenly invoked in their eyes such a feral anger and… was it fear?

The girl was silently bearing their hands clutching her tightly, but he could swear she was trying to convey with her eyes a message- most likely, _be careful_.

"Let her go," he repeated, in very much the same even tone as before.

This time, the other one answered- "She stays with us… or else we're not gonna get out of here, ever!" In the chiaroscuro mixture of faint artificial light and shadows, his face looked almost skeletal and consumed, and his limbs seemed longer, thinner, spidery.

"We're right by the road, not in the fires of hell, cut the drama," he said, smoothly.

"Are we?" one questioned, "Are you sure?" the other one echoed.

His façade remained utterly collected, but as he looked around, the ground seemed to loosen under his feet; because this place was not the bus any longer, but a place of nightmares, a realm of shadows he had been to countless times in the worst of his dreams. Tendrils of fog crawled under the seats in his field of vision; and through the darkness, it was as if countless headless eyes were looking straight at his naked soul.

For a third time, he repeated his words: "Let her go."

"I don't think so," one supplied, ""Why would we ever?" the voice of the other ghosted.

"We've been waiting for ages to get out!" they said at once.

.

.

.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

... I don't really remember why I dropped this fic- I really like it.

I'll try to finish it this time.

Does anyone recognize what's going on? Hint: something a lot like this happened in Ancient Egypt.


	4. entrapment and metamorphoses

_"We've been waiting for ages to get out!" they said at once._

.

The shadowplay made them look like monsters against a black, void backdrop; and it made her eyes gleam in an otherworldly way that made him shiver.

'Don't worry about me,' her meek voice drifted towards him, 'But go back before the exit closes.'

He looked behind him. The front part of the bus was a shimmering source of light in the distance, that seemed to draw farther and farther with each breath he took. He couldn't chase after it, not even if he'd wanted to.

The two men-turned-something-else shifted behind him and stirred the thick darkness. Their voices in unison sounded hollow and distorted, and beckoned to him- 'It won't be twice the same, we promise…,' they said, 'This time, _you'll_ fall. This time, eternity will wait for _us_', they said.

Not one thing they said made any sense to _him_, and he sought reassurance from the girl, but her face was impassive, betraying nothing.

'I don't know what you're talking about', he snapped, and a little voice in the back of his mind disagreed.

_You do know, if you only cared to remember. Remember, Seto…? 5000 years ago…?_

He didn't remember anything, and he had no logical reason to trust a scaredy voice in his head. What he _did_ was see vague images flash before his eyes- dungeons, chains, monsters.

Death and a white light.

But that meant nothing to him. Images were not memories, not as far as he gave a damn.

'Seto,' she whispered, quietly, and he saw her struggle to get out of their grasp that was like the grasp of a spider and the grasp of a colossus. He took a step forward, instinctively. As if, should they drop her, she'd fall into an abyss wherefrom she'd be irretrievable.

_Again._

He didn't question why he cared.

'Woman, we'll do as we please with you,' they said, as if they were repeating something they'd said before. But they weren't.

In the darkness, his skin seemed much darker than it was.

The beacon of light behind him had been stitched up with fine tendrils of black dimness, and, in the umbrageous shadows, faint wisps of violet smoke rose from the faded ground.

Her voice trembled.

'I've been here before,' she said.

'We've all been here before,' the two replied, their voices one.

'Let her go,' he commanded, for the last time. His voice rang final- it sounded like the voice of a monarch.

They grinned.

He lounged forward, putting years of martial-arts training to their best use so far, knocking them down easily. He grabbed the girl by her wrist, pulled her to his chest.

'Are you okay, Kisara?'

'I am- but that's not my name.'

The two men stood up. They no longer were human, but twisted creatures of the shadows: one like a spidery being, the other one like a wretched titan. Both towered above Seto and the girl, grabbed at them- but they were already running… fast, incredibly fast- unaware of when they had started running.

They might have even been running all their lives.

_Run, run, run_, ghastly voices behind them slurred, _No one can ever leave the realm of shadows_.

The girl that wasn't Kisara was so pale that she seemed to gleam faintly, making the shadows retreat, angrily. The whole of the darkness seemed to be singing now:_ No one leaves, no one can ever leave the Realm of the Shadows_.

He didn't have a plan, for the first time in a long time. He felt neither tired nor scared, but slightly unworthy of being dragging her along. The quivering tinge of energy that seeped from her skin through his fingertips stirred the thought in him, that she should be dragging _him_ instead.

He stopped. She stopped. He let go of her hand.

'Why are you letting me drag you around?' he snapped, thinly annoyed.

'They'll catch up with us,' she replied, evenly.

Her answer didn't please him. 'You obviously know more than you're letting on, so get us out of here or let me fend for myself. Your passiveness is idle,' he sentenced, much in the tone he reserved specially for his brother.

She nodded- not _one_ reaction she'd had so far made any sense to him. She took his wrist (her hands were cold).

'Do you trust me?' she asked.

'I guess I wouldn't have a choice.'

She seemed to take his annoyance as though it was kindly meant.

Their exchange had lasted but a couple of seconds, and they broke into a run again, under the looming shadows of the two gruesome creatures chasing them- from the darkness, and into the darkness.

.

.

.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

I want to dedicate this chapter to **_Erik's Champion_**, whose support moved me to update :)

I hope you've liked it, even if it's short.

A question, guys: do you think they're in-character so far?


	5. the silent namesake

_'Do you trust me?' she asked._

_'I guess I wouldn't have a choice.'_

.

He dreamt of a scene like this, probably. That should be the reason why it felt so familiar, like a jagged déjà-vu.

So familiar. The warmth of the girl's hand. The black air around them. The pangs of warning in his ribcage, as if he felt something beyond his five senses –nonsense, evidently.

But. Such _familiar_ nonsense.

He pondered and she led him through labyrinths of shadow and fog, widening the distance between them and their maddened pursuers. She seemed to know that place, somehow, inexplicably. When she took a turn, the shadows seemed to retreat, angrily, under her feet, reluctantly letting her pass, and he with her.

'Do you know where we're going?' he asked, before he could help himself.

She looked over her shoulder at him. Her iridescent eyes revealed nothing. Concentration, perhaps.

'You said you'd been here before.'

'So have you,' she sighed, 'We've all been here before.'

'That makes no sense, woman. What _is_ this place, anyway?'

'It's nothing. Nowhere. The place where we are right before we fall asleep. The fear in our hearts. A no-place.'

'Right,' he sighed. He pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling cold, damp, tired. The mild, gentle shine of her whiteness against the pervading blackness stung his eyes. 'And how do we leave?'

'Waking up.'

Set, or Seto, looked at her wearily. She drew him to her and vaguely intimidated him at the same time, and confused him –with a familiar sort of confusion.

'Who are you?', he asked levelly. He hoped he didn't sound hopeless.

Her beautiful eyes became forlorn.

'Kisara, Set. I'm Kisara.'

.

.

.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

such mysteries.

I know it's short, but I felt it should stand alone.

I'm glad you still remember this story, guys. Your reviews make me warm inside: thanks for your support :)


	6. Ib, Sheut, Ren, Ba

_'Who are you?', he asked levelly. He hoped he didn't sound hopeless._

_Her beautiful eyes became forlorn._

_'Kisara, Set. I'm Kisara.'_

.

.

.

Either he'd been resurrected, or he'd been drained of any sense of self he'd kept since he was there.

And, how long had he been there…?

He felt like he was in hell, and all the disembodied eyes of the myriad of resident devils were fixed upon his lithe limbs, as if though they beheld pulsating masses of nourishment.

He felt… he felt as if he'd had long since been torn apart, within and without, if it were not for that woman's soothing light, that kept him rooted to himself.

'Set,' she said softly, 'Set… listen to me.'

His eyes slowly found their way to the clear sight of her.

'Set, do not let this place trick you. You are yourself. Your essence. The name that you carry now, or the life you lived before we awoke here are not important. This place is timeless –it's a sanctum for the Darkness. It will try to get you to question yourself. It has a cunning voice. Do not listen to it.'

Her voice felt like an oasis. Through it, his gaze was suddenly focused and calculating again, and his very own voice returned to him.

'You don't make any sense.'

She smiled. She smiled, as if she were used to him.

'I am Kisara, even if that is not my name anymore. You are Set, even if you're different now. Kisara was me. Set was you. But we _are_, in essence, the same. Unchanged. _Unchangeable_. As long as you know that, the shadows will never claim you.'

He believed her, against his better judgement. But his mind tried to fight what his heart seemed to take for granted.

'And how is all of this so clear to you, now, all of a sudden?', he asked.

'It just is. The darker it became around us, the easier it was to know it. You will _have_ to believe me, Set. That is all I can give to you now.'

'Why do you keep calling me Set?'

'So that you can call me Kisara again.'

A smile that might be playful set on her lips, and though it felt out of place in that dismal void, he welcomed it.

As though his heart had been a bird, and it had come back home after ages of fluttering without direction, a wave of peace washed over him. He could welcome her voice and he could believe what she was saying, and he could also begin to feel the faint quivering of his skin, echoing pulsations that reached to him from beyond their ring of darkness.

He didn't think of wondering if they'd always been there before, he didn't stop to consider that maybe now he was feeling them because he had just _changed_… because, through her words, something very primeval within the core of his soul had been, finally, put right again.

He merely acknowledged the prickling in his skin like a warning. He could read that warning.

'Those things are coming closer,' said Set. With a frown, Kisara tried scouring the darkness.

Meanwhile, Set idly thought she looked rather amusing in jeans and a hoodie, and didn't even care to frown at how calmly he was taking their predicament.

It slightly felt like a dare, now. _Yes, a dare. I dare them to come and even _try_ to touch us._

When they were visible again in their horizon, they were much too near, and they did not look human any more. Any trace of skin or limb had been replaced by a monstrous semblance of a replacement: viscosity, hair and chitin.

They had become silent, too. They observed them with malice and voracity, like animals, with revenge imprinted into their vapid brains for lack of anything else.

The silent, graveyard-like plain of shadows sizzled with the low-pitched noise of their limbs grating against one another, in anticipation of a macabre game soon to unfold.

Set felt secure, steady. He was not afraid in the face of defenselessness, and he braced himself for anything that could occur.

Kisara was, standing next to him, still like a marble statue.

Her skin radiated gently waves of light, that, though viciously swallowed by the surrounding darkness, were enough to set her face aglow with steely command.

'I'm with you,' she said to him, briefly locking blue eyes with blue eyes, 'Whatever happens now. Never doubt it. And never doubt yourself, Set.'

He wanted to scoff. He wanted to be regal and cool and reassuring, but hardly had his lips parted, that the ground, so firm beneath them a heartbeat before, disintegrated into vapid fog.

And they found themselves falling, and Set's words betrayed him, when he found that all he could do, as he fell, deeper and deeper into the black abyss, was call Kisara's name.

.

.

.

* * *

.

**Before the Author's Note: some words on the Ancient Egyptian concept of the soul:**

_By now, you've sensed that there's something odd going on, and I felt that an explanation would be useful._

_**Ib (heart)**_

An important part of the Egyptian soul was thought to be the Ib (jb), or heart. To ancient Egyptians, the heart was the seat of emotion, thought, will and intention. In Egyptian religion, the heart was the key to the afterlife. It was conceived as surviving death in the nether world, where it gave evidence for, or against, its possessor.

**_Sheut (shadow)_**

A person's shadow or silhouette, Sheut, is always present. It was also representative to Egyptians of a figure of death, or servant of Anubis (...)

_**Ren (name)**_

As a part of the soul, a person's ren (rn 'name') was given to them at birth and the Egyptians believed that they would live for as long as that name was spoken.  
The greater the number of places a name was used, the greater the possibility it would survive to be read and spoken.

_**Ba (personality)**_

The 'Ba' was everything that makes an individual unique, similar to the notion of 'personality'.  
The 'Ba' is an aspect of a person that the Egyptians believed would live after the body died, and it is sometimes depicted as a human-headed bird flying out of the tomb to join with the 'Ka' in the afterlife.

Purposefully left out of the title of this chapter is the _**Ka (vital spark)**,_ whose concept you must be familiar with. The Ka was the Egyptian concept of vital essence, that which distinguishes the difference between a living and a dead person, with death occurring when the ka left the body.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Omg. This story. It's got a mind of its own.

Your thoughts? I'd love to hear them.

What do you think will happen now?


End file.
